


untethered.

by noifsandsorbees



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Death, F/M, revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:15:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noifsandsorbees/pseuds/noifsandsorbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She comes home, but she doesn’t come back to him, not right away. She comes for the comfort of a well worn couch, for her grandmother’s yellow crochet blanket to throw over her legs, for the reminder that she has somewhere she belongs. (Maggie story, written before Home Again aired)</p>
            </blockquote>





	untethered.

**Author's Note:**

> I had posted this on Tumblr before the revival and for some reason I deleted it. Might as well repost it. 
> 
> Prompt challenge, Chopped style!! (kind of) -- Prompt: Mulder left a hickey; Set: any time frame; Incorporate the following words any way you choose: 'ID', 'Yellow', and 'cards’

She’s home when he wakes up one morning, silent as she sits hidden in front of the couch, legs crossed under the coffee table. She’s there, but her head isn’t, too distant to offer him even a glance until he hands her a cup of tea and settles on the couch above her.

It was only the two of them there yesterday when the plug was pulled, hours before a flustered Bill and Tara came in, guilt and sadness in their eyes as they told Scully to go home and sleep, told her they’d take care of everything. 

She’d lost her ability to speak long before then, to summon the words to fight, to demand control. She didn’t know how to tell them that she’s the one always surrounded by death, the one most apt to face it again.

She was distracted trying to convince herself that her mother shouldn’t have hurt this much more than her father, her sister, her daughter.

He’d driven her to her apartment that night and watched as she slipped away, shutting him out in a solitude he’d almost forgotten she was capable of.

She comes home, but she doesn’t come back to him, not right away. She comes for the comfort of a well worn couch, for her grandmother’s yellow crochet blanket to throw over her legs, for the reminder that she has somewhere she belongs.

He’s unnerved by her stillness, expecting her at any minute to run off to work or start cleaning each room of the house, but instead she stays, diving further and further lost in her own head. He relies on his quiet presence to pull her out when she’s ready. 

It’s only once the sun goes down that she sits beside him, legs curled beside her on the couch, and buries her head in his shoulder. It’s only then that a sob forces it's way through her, and she cries until she has nothing left, his arms tight around her. Together they mourn and try to understand that some losses don’t require vengeance, just time. The knowledge that there’s nothing they could have done somehow makes the pain more acute.

When they’ve calmed, he, ridiculously, asks how she’s feeling. He regrets the words immediately, expecting her to laugh at the obviousness of the answer, but instead she presses herself closer to him. “Untethered,” she whispers, her voice still raw. She trails her hand to the back of his neck, curls her fingers into him, reasons that with all her cards already on the table she has nothing to lose. “Make it go away,” she pleads, tears threatening to return.

He looks down and sees a desperate need in her eyes, so he kisses her, possessive and bruising, pushing her until she’s lying underneath him. Her thoughts quiet, her id taking over as he consumes her, stealing her breath and biting dark bruises just under her collarbone, marks to remind her that she’s connected to someone in this world.

He pulls away, just for a moment, for a breath of air, but then she cradles his cheek and stares into his eyes until both of them start to tear again. He lowers his lips to her ear and struggles to speak, “I miss Mom already,” he whispers, his voice low and raspy, and suddenly neither of them have the energy to continue what they started.

She pulls him down beside her, their foreheads pressed together. “What do we do now?” she asks through a sniffle, and he wipes her nose with his sleeve. He hugs her, because he doesn’t have an answer; holds her until her tears stop, her breathing evens and she falls asleep. He stares at the ceiling as the hours pass and steels himself for the upcoming days, preparing to say goodbye to the only parent he never had to doubt.


End file.
